


The Devil's Advocate

by DEATHBERRY



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angels, Angst, Demons, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEATHBERRY/pseuds/DEATHBERRY
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after his best friend committed suicide (and he cried and cried and cried because he didn't know why.), someone else comes back. (and that's not the boy he fell in love with decades ago, but that's alright, because he loves that boy for far too long, far too much to let him go.) </p><p>In which Steve is the Angels' hired hunter and Bucky is kinda, well, dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I'm working on 2 WIPs at the same time it means I'm kinda fucked, like seriously fucked. This fic is kinda Supernatural-ish and Constantine-ish. And again, I'm not Christian. Every info in this fic is what i've learnt from wikipedia and such, so if there's anything that doesn't sound right, please let me know. :)

 

 

_"What was it like to lose him?"_

_"It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me - said all at once."_

_**Lang Leav** _

 

 

 

“He killed himself?”

 

“I heard the police said that what it looks like. I also talked with the medic and she agreed with that.”

 

“If that's the case, what do you want from me then?”

 

“You're the last person he called from his phone, just five minutes before he jumped, so Detective Jones wanna have a talk with you.”

 

“We're gonna have a dinner together. He said he's coming, he said he wanna show me something fantastic,” Steve said numbly as he walks through the door into his best friend's apartment. He's been here at least three days a week but now it feels like he is in someone else's room as it's filled with the police officers in dark uniform and the forensics trying to collect any physical evidence that might lead to a homicide.

 

“Steve, you don't have to see. Jones just wanna talk. I will tell him you're not ready.”

Sam steps in front of him before he has a chance to slide the glass door to the balcony open, but he just smiles and pats his friend shoulder softly to make him stop worrying.

 

“I want to see. I have my rights, aren't I?”

His joke falls flat and Sam doesn't even lift the corner of his month up. But that's alright. Steve doesn't mind much. He walks around his friend, slides the glass door open and steps outside to the balcony. The rain that hasn't stopped falling since the afternoon makes the narrow space of the balcony flooded a little like it always does. He can imagine that jerk annoying face when he has to mob it after the rain every damn time. _“I'm living on the fucking 5_ _th_ _floor, at least I shouldn't face with the flood problem for crying out loud! Stevie, stop laughing! It's not funny! Get your small ass over here and help me mob the fucking balcony before the water gets inside.”_

 

“The guy who lives across the building said he saw him standing on the rail .. and then jumped down.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Yeah, just like that.”

 _Still be the fucking jerk until the end._ Steve smiles softly to that thought while stepping closer to the rail. The drizzle makes his glasses blurred so he has to take them off, keeping them in the inside pocket of his black jacket suit that is now damped a little. He looks over the rail down to the street below, and even from the 5th floor, the blue and red light from the police cars are still so bright it hurts his eyes a little. He doesn't notice that Sam has walked to stand next to him at the balcony rail.

 

“I don't know if it's strange or not but I heard the medics said it's strange," he said quietly as if it's a secret and Steve is too numb to feel anything from Sam's soft voice. He might think about it later but just, not now, not when everything is moving in a blurry motion and sounding like a static noise from the radio.There might be a time after this when the reality finally catches up and he is gonna end up curling to himself on the floor, vomiting and sobbing because his best freind just commited suicide and he doesn't even know why, but just not right now.

 

"There's so little blood. Jumping from this high, they said there should be blood splashing everywhere and his body shouldn't look this good. He doesn't even have any open wound, just small scratches. It looks like he just falls asleep in the middle of the street. Might be the wind and the rain for all I know.”

 

Steve lets Sam's words sink in. He wants to say something back to his friend to let him know that he's appreciated this information, but he can't find the words he wants because he doesn't know the reason either. _He feels so numb._ The blond pushes his damped hair out of his eyes. The street below isn't crowded like when he first arrived at the place anymore, might be because of the yellow tape that was put on around the area to secure the scene. It makes him see the body lying face down on the concrete more clearly as if to mock him for not knowing anything. And to think that he spent his entire life with that boy, with that corkiest, sweetest boy, _oh, how pathetic is that._

 

“You sure he jumped?”

 

“Yeah, the medics are pretty positive on that.”

 

“Of course, they are,” Steve mumbles with a soft smile on the lips. Sam glances at his smile then turns around, leaning his back against the cold metal rail and putting one hand on his shoulder.

 

“Hey, Steve...” Sam's soft voice is so quiet that it's almost a whisper. Still, he hears it loud and clear as if the rain turns down its sound so he won't miss a single word, so it will burn his heart until there's nothing else to hurt.

 

**“There's no saving a suicidal from Hell, you know that right?”**

 

*****

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_"...The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you've ever wished for..."_

**_Tucker Max; Assholes Finish First_ **

 

 

“Yes, Sam. I will be there,” he confirms his worried friend one last time before cuts off the line and throws the damn phone carelessly onto the unmade bed. Steve stands there next to his too big bed in his loose sweatpants and damp t-shirt, watching that tiny cellphone like it offenses him. And it did, to be fucking honest. He signs, still standing beside the bed for a few more minutes, waiting for the buzz from his morning run to fade down a little. He signs one more time then finally moving on with his day.

 

He takes a shower _(I like my hair to smell like a fucking lavender, thank you very much Rogers.)_ , gets dress in his usual black suit jacket and slack _(Damn Rogers, don't you clean up nicely.)_ , eats his breakfast _(You're gonna rob me Rogers? Seriously? You eat half a dozen of my eggs already!)_ then puts on his favourite and only charcoal wool peacoat _(If you don't buy that fucking coat right now I will buy it for you myself Rogers.)_ over his suit jacket then moves to the door. He locks his door, says hi to old Mrs. Carter who just walks out of the elevator with the grocery bag in one hand and a bunch of red roses in the other. She smiles and says good morning in crisp English accent _(Isn't that hot, Rogers. Bet she's the hottest chic in World War 2 or something with all that accent and red lipstick.)_ back to him in return.

 

“Let me help you with that bag, Mrs. Carter. I told you before, if you wanna go grocery shopping, you can knock at my door any time and I will come with you so you don't have to carry this bag all the way back here by yourself.”

 

“And makes those cashier girls jealous? No, no, Rogers boy. I might be mean but I'm not that mean” she chuckles softly as she gives him the grocery bag and holds onto his arm when he offers to walk her to her room.

 

“Beautiful and mean, you're so hard to get, ma'am.”

 

“Flattering won't get you anywhere, Rogers boy.”

 

“Well, I hope it will get me some of your chocolate cookies at least.”

 

Steve ends up spending several minutes helping her put away the groceries _(What a nice boy scout you are, Rogers.)_ and several more with her chocolate cookies.

 

Steve parts with her with a taste of a bitter chocolate left on his tongue and trails of crumb on his suit jacket. He takes a train to Manhattan, switches a line a few times and finally takes off at 53rd Street station. The freezing breeze of New York City winter makes him shiver a little and have to turn the collar of his peacoat up to protect his neck. St' Patrick's Cathedral gets into view after a few blocks walk and the sight of the Neo-Gothic-style church situated among the modern skyscrapers in Fifth Avenue is never fail to amuse him no matter how often he's visited.

 

Steve pushes the heavy Bronze Door open and walks inside. The sweet scene of the incests and candles makes him cringe a little. He's never liked this smell. He spent his entire childhood with it while his mom prayed and prayed for his fragile lung to work properly and let him breathe, let him survive for another day. It smells like dead. There's not many people in the church, making his footstep the only sound echo back and forth in the hall, like a demon haunting in your nightmare. The blond sits in one of the empty bench and waits. After a few minutes, a wooden bench creaks with the present of the red hair woman in tight black skinny jeans and brown leather biker jacket.

 

“You're late.”

 

“Out with your business, Romanov.”

The angel whose mortal name is Natasha Romanov smirks a little as if his annoyance amuses her. And it always does, he knows. Her ethereal face turns to glances at him, and, once again, it makes him wonder how many people is trapped by that oh, so pretty face and those big innocent green eyes.

 

“You'd better show me some respect, Hunter.”

 

“That's not the only thing you wants to tell me, is it, Romanov?”

 

“So impatient.”

 

“Yeah, someone told me that already. Spill, Romanov. I don't have time for your game.”

The red head angel scoffs with a mocking smile on her pretty red lips. She shifts in her seat a little to cross her leg, but doesn't come any closer.

 

“There's a demon...”

 

“There's always a demon.”

 

“I know, but this one is from Asmodeus's pit.”

 

“He escaped?”

 

“Kind of.”

The name gets his interest just only a little and Natasha's ambiguous answer doesn't help increasing it. She doesn't seem to care much about his reaction anyway. The red head angel stands up with her usual arrogance stance, ready to leave the place. She glances at him again.

 

“The usual, Rogers. You do whatever you want with that worm, just stops it from using the air up here to breathe that all the Upstairs want. After that, we will talk about your payment.”

 

*****

 

“Hey, Sam. Sorry for the wait.”

 

“It's ok, man. It's my lunch break anyway,” Sam says, gesturing to the empty fastfood paper bags sitting next to him on the park bench. He throws them to the litter bin next to the bench, making room for him to sit down, which is so unnecessary since the bench is not that small. But, well, this is Sam Wilson, and Sam Wilson is the best guy he's ever asked for. _(You forget me, Rogers?!. Fuck you!, I can't believe you forget about me!)_ Steve gives him his coffee before sitting down, drinking his own too sweet coffee quietly. _(That's how I drink my coffee, Rogers. Fuck off!)_ Sam, who wears a police dark uniform under the navy green parka, mumbles a quiet thank you and says nothing more. They sits in silent, sipping their too hot coffee to warm their body against the freezing wind in Central Park for awhile.

 

“Being a police is so fucking tiresome, man.”

It's Sam who is the first to break the silent, and even it's a silly thing to say, it makes him smile nonetheless.

 

“Why not? You love it.”

 

“Well, yeah, I mean, helping a cat from a tree is pretty fun.”

 

“I though that was the firefighters' job?”

 

“Literally, yeah, it is, but people tend to think I can do anything when I'm on patrol,” Sam shrugs with a small smile on his face.

 

“What about you, Steve? How's your comic going? Isn't your deadline two weeks away?” Sam asks. His eyes and his voice are too sincere it's hard to lie so, Steve doesn't.

 

“Three, actually. But I don't wanna go home right now.”

 

“Miss him?” Steve just shrugs. _(I miss when you're the size of a wet kitten, Rogers. At least I have a reason to not want to punch you in the face!)_ Every fucking day, he wants to answer. But that doesn't sound right, so he just only smiles.

 

“It's been a year already, Steve.”

 

“I know. It's just...” Steve chokes on his words and have to gulps a mouthful of coffee down in a hope that the hot liquid will burn the lump in his throat away.

 

“Just thinking how he's gonna be alone in that dark cold place forever, it breaks my heart, Sam.”

 

*****

 

The sound of the argument between Mr. and Mrs. Miller is the first thing he notices when the elevator door slides open at his floor. And when he steps out of the elevator, the second thing he notice is the person in a dirty black hoodie and equally dirty jeans sitting next to his door. The hood is up, hiding the person's eyes and that long unkempt brown hair doesn't help even a little bit. Those big feet in the heavy combat boots and strong arms hugging the knees tightly close to the chase make him think this is a man. Steve stops short on his way, glancing around a bit in a hope that there's will be this person's friends standing here somewhere but, of course, there's none. He walks slowly, cautiously to his door with the key ready in one hand.

 

“Hey,..” he said softly while putting the key in the doorknob. The man doesn't stir. He might be drunk, Steve thinks.

 

“Excuse me, are you alright?” He tries again, and, again, he miserably fails to get the man's interest. Still, Steve smiles down to the man patiently.

 

“Do you know your room number? I can help you to your room, if you want?”

Again, the man answer him with the silent. Steve sighs. He doesn't normally give up this easily, but today is so tiresome. Angels' business always tires him. He just wanna have a dinner and sleeps a dreamless sleep.

 

“Ok, if you want something, just knock, alright? Don't go knock at Mrs. Carter's room over there, ok? She will sock you in the face.”

When he doesn't get any reply, he pushes his door open. But the moment he steps one leg into his room, a hand shots out, grabbing at the hem of his coat. Steve frowns, looking down at the hand that stops him, and it looks so pale next too his charcoal peacoat he frowns even harder.

 

“Hey, do you want...”

 

“I know you.”

 

“What?”

 

“I _know_ you.” The eyes peer out from the curtain of the wavy brown hair, and it's like his heart suddenly, abruptly stops. Because he _knows_ those big grey eyes anyway. Even if he's blind, he still knows how it feels to have those eyes looking at him.

 

“Bucky?”

 

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

_This is so unfair._

 

*****

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End this chapter with the classic phrases of course. So, a little footnote for this chapter;  
> 1\. Asmodeusu is one of the seven princes of Hell. He represents Lust in the seven deadly sins.  
> 2\. St. Patrick's Cathedral is a real church in Manhattan. It's located in Fifth Street. Go google it. It's real beautiful.
> 
> Again, I'm not New Yorker. I don't even live in the States so, my knowledge about the transportation in the big apple is zero. The way Steve took the train in this chapter is properly wrong, like seriously wrong. Sorry about that. :(


	3. Chapter 3

 

_"When is a monster not a monster?  
Oh, when you love it."_

**_Caitlyn Siehl; Start Here_**

 

 

Steve can still remember the first day he met Bucky, even though he was very angry at that time. For all of the places they could possibly run into each other, considering they lived 2 blocks away from each other and even went to the same school, Steve met Bucky in the church.

 

He was seven and just recovered from his second pneumonia of that year for only three days, and so very angry with his mom as she still didn't let him to school. And, well, since he's very _very_ angry with his mom, he refused to walk with her to the confession booth and decided to sit at the last row of the pews instead. That's where he met Bucky, the 7-year-old boy who flashed him a toothy grin on the very first time their eyes ever met. Bucky's eyes were more blue than grey when he's younger, brighter, softer with youth and dreams. He had his younger sister in one arms while the other arms was holding his mother's.

 

“Mom, can Becca and I wait for you here?” After giving him a smile, Bucky turned to his mother who gave him a curious look in return.

 

“You don't want to come with me and talk with Farther Smith about your aunt's wedding? You told me you wanna tell him your idea, didn't you.”

Those blue eyes turned to meet him again, and up until now, Steve still can't figure the meaning of those eyes.

 

“Yes, I know, but mom, there's a puppy that needs my rescue sitting over there. I gotta save him.”

 

And saved him Bucky did, physically and mentally. The high pitch noise of the teapot chases away those decades old memory and brings him back to the present where his dead best friend is still breathing and sitting in his living room, waiting for the tea in his sweatpants and hoodie, hair still damp from the bath. Steve signs. He feels numb, _again_.

 

He prepares two ceramic mugs, blue and red, (blue one was, _is,_ Bucky's. He bought it himself.), putting one English breakfast teabag into each mug (they are the only type he has in the box, so fuck it.) then pouring the hot water from the boiling pot in. He watches the hot water slowly turns brown, trying to think of the word to say to the man waiting for him in the next room. But by the time he carries the mugs by the ear to the living room, he still can't find the word he wants to say.

 

The bright white light in the living room makes Bucky's skin look even paler, which causes his eyes to be bluer than usual, blue like when he was a kid, but duller, emptier, more dead. Steve puts the blue mug on the coffee table. The little click sound between the ceramic mug and the wooden table doesn't get Bucky's attention much.

 

“Hey,” he calls him softly. Bucky raises his eyes up to meet his, and the emptiness in the eyes that he should be familiar with because he grew up seeing them days and nights makes his stomach churn. Still, Steve is able to manage a smile to his best friend. He lifts his mug to his lips, sipping a too hot tea slowly.

 

“Drink your tea, Bucky. It'll warm you up.”

Bucky stares at his eyes for little seconds longer then finally gives his attention to the blue mug sitting on the coffee table in front of him, watching the steam floating out from the mug with such dead eyes it breaks his heart. When he sees that Bucky probably is not going to reach for the mug anytime soon, Steve puts his own mug down and walks around the coffee table to stand in front of his best friend. He kneels down , making himself a little shorter, like when he was a scrawny little kid whose growth spurt couldn't hit anytime sooner.

 

“Hey Buck,” he says, putting one hand on Bucky's stubble cheek, thumb gently fondles the soft skin over his sharp cheekbone in hope it will at least give some warm to a too cold, too pale skin. Steve smiles when those grey-blue eyes finally looks down at him.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi.”

The childish, almost adorable, way he says the word back in a small voice makes Steve smile a little bit wider. He uses his other hand to tuck that brown wavy lock back behind Bucky's ear, doing it over and over until every naughty strand is kept in place and doesn't cover any part of his face anymore.

 

“What's wrong? You don't like your tea?”

 

“I'm cold.”

 

“I know, Buck. That's why you hafta drink that tea. Can you do that for me, please? Just one sip.”

 

“Okay.”

There's something sound off in the way Bucky speaks, but he pushes it out of his mind easily enough. Steve draws his hand back in order to pick up the warm blue mug and puts it in Bucky's hand. His best friend watches the brown liquid with uninterested eyes while cupping his other hand to the other side of the mug. The warm ceramic seems to surprise him as his eyes get a little bigger. Steve smiles.

 

“See? It's warm. Now, drink some for me, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

And drink the tea, he does. Slowly, cautiously putting his red, _oh so red_ , lips on the rim of the mug and tipping the mug a little to take a small sip. After a few more gulps, Bucky puts the still almost full mug down, lowering his gaze to the floor which makes his hair falls out from behind his ears, covering his face.

 

“Hey, it's okay. You did great. C'mon, let get you to bed. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?”

Steve takes the blue mug and puts it back on the coffee table behind him. He, again, tucks that brown wavy lock behind the brunet's ears. Bucky's month parts a little, mumbling his okay back to him, and the too warm tea makes his lips so sinfully red that Steve can't help but stares. _Oh, how much he wants to devour those sinful lips._ He puts that though aside, like he aways does, and stands back up, leading the way to his bedroom.

 

Bucky lies down when he's asked to and stays perfectly still when Steve tucks the duvet tightly around him, and for some strange reasons, his feather-filled duvet makes Bucky looks strangely fluffy in a really adorable way. It's hard not to smile.

 

“Comfy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good. I'll be right outside if you want me, okay? Goodnight, Bucky.” Before he has a chance to turn around and walks out of the room, a cold hand on his wrist stops him half turning. He looks back to Bucky who now lies on his side, facing him with curious eyes.

 

“Yes, Buck?”

 

“Do I know you?” He asks, voice soft and quiet as if he's afraid that someone might hear. And Steve's heart shatters, however the already broken heart possibly can anyway. Still, Steve smiles.

 

“Of course, you do. I'm your puppy and you rescued me.”

 

_and I love you so, so fucking much._

 

Of course, he doesn't say that out loud.

 

*****

 

That night, after everything goes quiet, Steve lies in his bathtub with a shower raining over his body, crying and crying and crying, because he knows, _of course, he fucking knows._ He was in the ambulance next to the body bag. He was at the hospital, sliding the gurney into the morgue and closed the stainless steel door himself.

 

Of course, the boy who sleeps soundly in his bed, who has a soft voice and empty eyes, whose eyes are more grey than blue, is not the boy he fell in love decades ago. It's something else. Still, a very small part in his brain is glad anyway, because he loves that boy for far too long, far too much to let him go, _and that so, so fucks up._

 

*****

 

“Yes, Mr. Ivanov. I understand. The manuscript of the new issue will be on your desk by Monday. Thank you.” Steve ends the call with a heavy sign. His russian editor never makes anything easy for him.

 

“Busy night?”

 

“Yeah, kind of. Now, where were we.” He puts his phone back in the inside of his black suit jacket and turns back to the guy tied to the wooden chair in the middle of the circle sigil, trapping him in. The man sneers.

 

“You try to exorcise me?”

 

“Oh, yes, that. Thank you for the reminder, Trevor.”

Trevor bares his teeth in return. His eyes turns black while he struggles in his confinement.

 

“We all know you, Steve Rogers,” he spits out his name like it leaves a bad taste in his tongue. “Angels' perfect hound. How is it like to be those scums' little whore? Did they ever fuck you? I would, if you ask me.” He laughs, leering at him with those soulless eyes.

 

Steve signs while retrieving his small notebook out of his pants pocket. For all the demon he would find tonight, it happens to be a gay one (or a bisexual one, whatever). His life is like a joke sometimes.

 

“I will take that as a compliment. And no, they never fuck me. Please spread the words for me down there, alright? It's bad to have a false rumor running around in Hell. I've got a reputation to keep.” He opens his notebook, finding the spell he's been looking for. But before he has a chance to say it out loud, the bounded demon starts laughing again.

 

“Beware, Steve Rogers. The prince will get rid of you soon enough. He has his plan and you won't see it coming.”

 

Steve recites the incantation.

 

*****

 

Steve comes home to a quiet sound of the late night variety show and a dim light in his living room. He takes off his shoes, hanging his coat at the hooker by the door and takes off his suit jacket while walking soundlessly inside. He finds Bucky sitting on the coach in front of the television, aimlessly watching the show with the barely blinked eyes.

 

“Hey, Bucky. How's you doing”

 

“Okay.” Bucky's voice is still soft and quiet and a little off. Steve doesn't ask for clearer answer. He puts his jacket on the back of the kitchen stool, standing there in the kitchen to watch the back of the head of the boy he loves so much from afar and his heart burns. _Oh, how it hurts._

 

He drinks some water then walks out to the living room, kneeling in front of the boy he loves for forever again as if to beg him to love him back. Bucky is in the same too long sweatpants and too big hoodie he made him wear last night, face clean as he shaved him this morning.

 

“Hey,” Steve calls him softly while putting one hand at the nape of his neck, fixing those grey-blue eyes to look down at him, and only at him alone. Bucky's skin still feels cold to the touch and he can't help circling his thumb gently on that smooth cheek.

 

“I want you to be honest with me, okay? I won't be mad, I promise.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Who are you?”

Bucky blinks, and his eyes turns soulless black for a second, and Steve is proud with himself that he doesn't even flinch from the sight. Those sinfully red lips part while he frowns as if trying to look for the answer to satisfy him. But after a few minutes, the beautiful face of his beloved boy crumbles, and it breaks his heart over and over again.

 

“I don't know, but I know you. I remember you.”

 

That's not the right answer, but it's something that makes his heart swell a little, nonetheless.

 

*****

 

That night, when he lies awake in his too small coach, he finally knows the reason why the way Bucky – or whoever that is - speaks sounds so off to his ears. He pronounces the words like Mr. Ivanov.

 

There's a faintly russian accent in the way Bucky speaks.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_I have a flashback_  
_of something_  
_that never existed_

**_Louise Bourgeois; Ode â l'Oubli_ **

 

 

 

Sometimes, he remembers. He remembers lying still in the snow, watching someone through the rifle scope and waiting. _(He pulled the trigger and someone's head exploded.)_ He remembers cutting someone throat open while their 2-year-old daughter sat there, watching and screaming. _(And he slitted her throat too.)_ He remembers sneaking into the house, watching the man slept with his concubine _(How does he know she was his concubine?)_ and then killing them both by setting the whole house on fire and making it look like an accident.

 

But sometimes, he also remembers. He remembers lying on the softest bed, watching the boy with blond hair and ridiculous long eyelashes sleep and wanting. _(He put the feather-like kiss on his forehead and whispered him goodnight and I love you.)_ He remembers cutting an apple pie while the fireworks bloomed in the night sky of the forth of July. _(He said 'Happy Birthday, Stevie' and hoped he had the guts enough to go for a kiss. But he didn't, and he cried that night.)_ He remembers sneaking into the uninvited party, watching the boy with blond hair and ridiculous cornflower blue eyes smiled and flirted with his crush _(How does he know she was his crush?)_ and then pretending to be drunk and making it look like he didn't want to cry. _(He did cried, thought. That night, after he went to bed and the boy went home with his crush, he cried and cried and cried because he loved that boy so so much and he didn't know what to do to make the boy love him back.)_

 

“Bucky. Hey, Buck.”

He forgets he's called that, sometimes. Bucky _(No, he's not.)_ blinks awake a moment a warm hand is put on his cheek, the thumb circling slowly on his skin. It feels so warm he can't help nuzzling to that big warm hand. And he earns a kiss on his head for that. He's being good, real good. The man, Steve, _(How does he know his name is Steve?)_ sitting at the edge of the bed chuckles softly.

 

“Good morning, sleepy head.”

 

“Good morning.” He mumbles back, hides half of his face in the soft pillow and uses only one eye to peer up to the man whose smile feels like sunshine in the winter season, warm but a little too sad.

 

“I have to go out a bit. I made you a breakfast. It's on the table. There's also lunch in the fridge. Warm it up when you wanna eat, okay? But if you don't like my spaghetti, you can order your favorite Chinese. The number is on the table.” Steve says, using his ridiculously gentle voice as if he's a child who barely understands anything complicated. He hates it. _(He loves it.)_ He wants to tell Steve to treat him like a reasonable adult that he is. _(He wants to tell Steve to pamper him more.)_

 

“Okay.”

Steve smiles, bends down to kiss him in the head one more time then stands up and walks out of the room. He lies still in the bed until he hears the front door swing softly shut then starts to get up and does what he's told. _(No, not really. Not a straight order but that what Steve said, and he wants to make Steve proud.)_ He eats the breakfast, all of it, then cleans up the dishes. Even though the hot water tap doesn't work, he washes all the dishes anyway. The cold water makes his hands so numb he almost drops one of the dishes, but he manage to catch it on time. He doesn't mind the cold. There's something colder than the tap water in winter, he knows. _(Lying half dead and bleeding in the snow in northern Russia, being waterboarded with the icy water from Baikal lake.)_

 

He gasps, draws his hands out of under the freezing water and steps away from the sink. He blinks and blinks and blinks until those images disappear from his eyes, but the smell of the Russian snow still lingers and he doesn't know how he knows it. He finally reaches out and closes the tab. His numb fingers make his movement awkward and clumsy.

 

He retreats back to the bedroom, which is the warmest room in the apartment, and lies back onto the unmade bed. The sunlight that slips through the space between the light blue curtain makes the sheet warm and comfortable. He goes under the fluffy duvet, cocooning him himself in it then falling right back asleep.

 

*****

 

The knock wakes him up with a startle. He find his hand reaching out, seeking for something, a knife maybe, and has to tuck it back to his lap when there's none to grab. He sits still in the bed, waiting to see if there's going to be another knock, and there is. He walks quietly to the door then slowly, cautiously opens the door a little, hiding most of his body behind the wooden door and peering only one eyes out. The old woman seems surprise to see him opening the door. The bright red lipstick on her lips stuns him. _(The boy with blond hair and ridiculous bright smile grew tall and strong, and one day he came to school with red lipstick smeared on his lips, dark bruises on his neck and the same shirt he wore yesterday, smelling like a strawberry shower gel. He hid from that boy all day, afraid he would cry if he's asked what's wrong, because everything was wrong. He loved that boy first and it's not fair.)_

 

“Oh, hello there.”

 

“Hi,” He answers back quietly.

 

“Rogers boy is not home, I assume?” He nods and doesn't explain any further. The old woman squints her eyes at him and then smiles. “Oh, I remember you now, James Barnes. Haven't seen you around lately. The hair suits you well, young man” He doesn't know who James is _(He doesn't know who Bucky is either.)_ but he nods anyway. And maybe, he does something that is not so James Barnes in that second because she frowns at him a little and reaches one wrinkle hand to his face. He ducks back behind the door before the hand touches him.

 

“Darling, are you alright? You're so pale.”

 

“I'm okay. May I help you, ma'am?” He somehow still remembers how to be polite _(Be grateful, dog. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Now be a polite little pup and lick my boots clean.)_ and she seems please with it.

 

“Well, that Rogers boy said I can call him when I want to go for a grocery shopping. Now, that he's not here, it seems I have to go alone.” She shrugs like she doesn't mind to go alone. He presses his lips together a bit. Maybe he should go with her so Steve won't get mad at him when he knows that he takes good care of one of his friend. Maybe he shouldn't go with her so Steve won't get mad at him when he comes home and doesn't find him leaving the room. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do when he's Bucky.

 

“I don't...”

 

“Mrs. Carter?” The familiar voice of the man with blond hair and blue eyes _(and he loves, loves, loves him so much.)_ makes him hide himself behind the door more so it doesn't seem like he's stepping out of the room or eager to leave. _(Please, don't punish me. I'll be good.)_ Steve jogs to the room and Mrs. Carter gives him a crisp but fond smile.

 

“There you are, Rogers boy. Right on time. Let go shopping.”

 

“What? You wanna go shopping? What about the jealous cashier girls?”

 

“They annoyed me yesterday. I'm taking my revenge.”

Steve laughs, and the sound feels nice to his ears he ends up wanting to hear more. _(Wanting is a dangerous thing, dog. Remember that. When you start wanting thing, you'll get greedy and you'll never get enough.)_

 

“You are such a dangerous woman, Mrs. Carter.”

 

“Hell yes, I am. You want to go with us, James?” Steve glances at him and smiles softly, and it warms his inside, and it feels so so good. “Let go buy something for you, yeah? You need clothes.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And in that moment, he thinks, if Steve Rogers wants him dead, the only question he will ask is how much he wants it to hurt.

 

*****

 

“This one fits you alright?”

 

“The navy one, Rogers boy. Get him the navy one.”

 

The light in the department store makes him dizzy and the crowd that keep brushing him wherever he walks makes him on edge for no particular reason. He has three t-shirts, three pairs of sweatpants, two pairs of dark jeans, four henleys, three hoodies and half a dozen of underwears in the basket sitting next to Mrs. Carter on the nearby waiting bench, and now Steve tries to fit him in a dark blue parka with a fur trimmed around the hood.

 

“I know, Mrs. Carter. I'm trying to find him the right size. Try this one on Buck. It's a bit bigger. Might be more comfortable.” He takes the one he's wearing off and put on the new one. As Steve says, it's one size bigger and the sleeves are too long they almost covers his hands. He hears Mrs. Carter giggles.

 

“Well, that's adorable, James.”

He looks at the blues eyes in front of him and they looks right back at him, filling with fondness and love. _(Not him, at Bucky, at the boy who rescued him decades ago, someone else that's long gone, but not him.)_ Steve zips the front zipper and reaches out to put the hood on his head. He tucks his hair behind the ear gently and smiles that sunshine smile that never fails to warm him up to the core.

 

“Of course, he is.”

 

And in that second, he thinks, he's willing to burn in Hell for however long it takes, if it means he can get this boy to smile at him like this for everyday he wakes up and is supposed to be Bucky Barnes.

 

*****

 

That night, he stands next to the coach, watching Steve Rogers sleeps soundly on his side in the too small coach. _(And whispering and sobbing I love you, I love you, please don't be in love with someone else.)_ The living room is too dark but he sees his sharp profile anyway, strong jawbone and all that. He bends down, trying to touch the soft skin covering his sharp cheekbone. But before his finger tip can contact with the warm skin, a hand shoots up, grabbing his wrist with unbelievable force while the other throws a water from a small flask hidden under the cushion at his face. And it burns, it burns, it burns.

 

“Ugh!” He groans, pulls his wrist out of the grip and tries to step away. The back of his knees hits the coffee table and he falls back on it ungracefully with so much force he ends up rolling down to the floor, curling into the fetal position with both arms wrapping tightly around his head. _(It will hurt. The punishment always hurts.)_ It takes several more minutes for Steve to move from the coach, rushing to kneel next to him on the floor. He hears him curse.

 

“Shit! Bucky! Are you alright? I'm sorry. Let me see your face.” Steve tries to pry his arms out of his head, but it only makes him curl tighter to himself. He breathes hard, swallowing back the cry and scream he knows it will make nothing better. _(So much noise never makes anything hurt less.)_ But he can't help begging anyway. _(Your face is so pretty when you beg, dog. Keep begging and maybe I'll be sweet on you more.)_

 

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I won't do it again. Please don't hurt me.” He hears someone gasps, but he's too cold to find out who. It's so cold and he's freezing, but the hand touching his arm is so warm, so so warm and that's not right. He takes another deep breath to swallow back a sob.

 

“Bucky, no. I'm not gonna hurt you. Let me see you face, please. I'm sorry.”

 

And the name makes it hurt even more.

 

“I'm sorry I'm not the Bucky that you want. I'm sorry I'm someone else. I'll try harder. I'll be good, I promise. Please don't hurt me.”

 

Someone cries, and he makes sure it's not him by biting his own lips until they're a bloody mess. _(Your face is so pretty when you cry, dog. Better than a grade A whore. But it will get you nowhere. Better remember that too.)_

 

*****

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**_"And I can’t breathe, and I don’t know what to do."_ **

_Br_ _enda Walsh; Beverly Hill, 90210 Series_

 

 

Steve loses count of how long he's been sitting here, on the cold wooden floor next to Bucky who shakes so hard but doesn't make any sound other than a hard breathing all night. (And he tries to quiet that noise too, Steve knows.) He curls himself into a tight fetal ball and refuses to let go, no mater how hard Steve pleads, no matter how hard Steve cries. 

 

The first ray of light of the next morning that slips into the room makes his bruised tired eyes water a little. His back aches and he's so tired. Still, he refuses to leave his spot on the floor. Steve puts one gentle hand on the head covered with messy chocolate brown lock, or part of it anyway, since the brunet still refuses to unwrap his arms around his head. He tried to lift Bucky's head up to pillow on his leg at one point that night, but it didn't work, and he didn't know what else to do.

 

"Hey, it's morning. Don't you tired? 'Cause I am." _Real tired_ , he wants to add. Bucky is tired, he knows, because he doesn't have an energy to flinch from Steve's touch like he does all night anymore. When adrenaline runs out, it leaves you exhausted and drained. The boy he knows (Does he really know this boy?) is never afraid of anything in his life glances at him through his messy hair, and Steve gets a glimpse of wide stormy grey eyes and red tender flesh on the side of his face that seems like it has been burnt. (He tries not to think about that. It hurts his head and breaks his heart.)

 

"I'm okay. I'm sorry."

 

"Hey no, that's not what I mean. C'mere, let get you comfortable. I'm not gonna hurt you." Steve pushes the coffee table aside and scoots back to rest his aching back against the sofa. He reaches one hand out, waiting patiently for the boy he knows always be patient with him (Is it really this boy?) to grab and move closer, and, to his surprise, Bucky does, after a several heartbeats and cautious stare. A soft cold touch on his hand makes him pull his best friend (Is he?) close too hard while his other hand reaches blindly for the blanket piled messily on the sofa he's used for sleep this past couple of days. Maybe he will want to protest if he has more energy to struggle, but Steve ends up hauling Bucky up to lie down on his lap, head cautiously pillowing on his thigh. He is on his side, turning his back to Steve and hiding his face behind the curtain of his hair, which seems to be his new habit. (Bucky has never had the hair this long.)

 

"You're so cold. Are you alright? Here, get under the blanket. It'll warm you up. Do you want tea? Like last time?" Steve asks while spreading the blanket over the body that doesn't seem to stop shaking since last night, tucking it tightly so no amount of cold air can touch the boy lying beneath it.

 

"I'm okay." Bucky answers quietly, curling his legs up until they almost touch his chest. The position looks painful, and Steve's heart hurts. He slots one arm around Bucky's chest, hugging him sideway loosely while putting the other hand on his head, scratching gently on the scalp.

 

"No, you are not. You're lying on the cold floor all night, doesn't sleep one bit. I also burnt your face with holy water. How are you gonna be okay?" He asks, not unkindly, but Bucky flinches from the words anyway.

 

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

 

_Oh, how a simple word can violently break his heart._

 

Their conversation is going nowhere. Whatever Steve says, it will be answered with 'I'm sorry' and 'it won't happen again'. And the way he forms those heartbreaking sentences makes Steve think that he's familiar with those words, like he's used to repeatedly saying them over and over again. (And Bucky never begs, not once in his life.) Steve swallows hard, forcing a lump in his throat down so he doesn't breakdown and cry again. He goes for a smile, and it probably looks ugly and pathetic, but he still tries anyway.

 

"Hey, can you look at me? Please?" He holds his breath and patiently waits. After a few minutes, Bucky moves, rolling over to lie on the other side. Stormy grey eyes peer through unkempt hair to look at him. Steve's smile turns soft, how can he not, when those big grey eyes look at him like that, like Steve is the only good thing in the world, like Steve is his whole world. (Bucky never looks at him like that. He has too many friends to have only Steve being his entire world.)

 

"Hi," Steve says softly.

 

"Hi," He says it back, just as soft, with the childish voice he always uses when he is unsure. It's adorable. (Buck is everything but adorable.) Steve uses his fingers to push some strains back behind the ear, and finally has a first clear sight of what he's done last night. It makes his stomach churns. Bucky's left cheek is red, hurtfully so. Steve uses the back of his fingers stroking the slightly hot smooth skin gently while looking down at the face of the boy he loves so so much. (Loved?)

 

"Does it still hurt? Wanna put an ice on it?"

 

"No, thank you. It doesn't hurt."

Steve doesn't know if that's a lie, but he leaves it at that. He doesn't want to cause another breakdown, and he himself doesn't have any tear left to cry.

 

"Last night, you said you're someone else." Steve says, putting the sentence to sound like the question.

 

"I don't know who I am. I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

 

"Hey, no. I'm not gonna be mad at you." He slides his hand along the sharp jaw line, cupping at the back of Bucky's neck and holding his face in place so those stormy grey eyes don't have a chance to turn away. And it hurts to look into the eyes that he's supposed to know as he grew up falling love with them for his whole life, but he doesn't, and it's terrified.

 

"Who do you wanna be? What do you want me to call you?" _Because I will love Bucky Barnes still, no matter what he is, no matter what he becomes, in any shape, in any form,_ Steve doesn't add. Red lips part a little but then snap shut as if he has something to say but decides to swallow it back. Bucky – no, not Bucky - averts his eyes.

 

"Whatever you want me to be."

 

_How many time a man's heart can break in one night? Because his heart still breaks, even it's already shattered into tiny pieces._

 

Steve holds back his tear, and smiles. He will definitely cry if he's not smiling, and he doesn't know what to do. His thumb fondles gently at the red skin, trying to chase the pain from last night away from that soft, fragile skin stretching over the fine jaw line. He wants to bend down and kiss the boy's head. He wants to bend down and kiss those sinfully red lips. Oh, he wants too many things with the boy he adores for his whole life. But Steve keeps it at only a smile and a gentle touch.

 

“Do you like James? I can call you James. C'mon, let make breakfast, James. I'm hungry”

 

James smiles, and it's worth every pieces of his broken heart.

 

*****

 

“Dude, you know I'm retired, right?”

 

“Yeah, but...” Steve trails off as a Golden Retriever runs past the bench he and Sam are sitting, barking happily at nothing in particular. He watches it barks at the paddling of ducks floating lazily on the almost frozen pond in Central Park. Next to the Retriever is James, standing silently near the edge of the pond and watching the ducks quaking at each other with a little lift at the corner of his mouth. He seems more content. Sam clears his throat, and his mind finally comes back to the conversation.

 

“I know you're retired, Sam. You don't have to do this. I can't ask you to do this.”

 

“It's thing like this that makes me retire from the Hunter shit in the first place.” Sam sighs, holding his coffee with both hands to warm them up. He gives him a look, and then sighs some more.

 

“I'll give it a look, but I can't promise you anything, alright? The morgue might want a warrant, but I'll see what I can do.”

 

“Thanks, Sam.” Steve wants to say more, but keeps it at that. He sips his too sweet coffee while his eyes find the way back to the boy who is now called James again. Still, he feels Sam's watching him from his side of the bench.

 

“Y'know, Steve...” He doesn't want to hear the end of that sentence, so he cuts it off with a pointless wave of his hand “I know, Sam. I'll take care of the Angels. You don't have to worry about them. I'll talk with Romanov when she thinks I deserve her precious time.”

 

That's not what Sam is going to say, he knows. But Sam is stubborn in the way that he never gives up telling the truth when he thinks Steve is being too stupid and too reckless to care, and that's why he likes being friend with Sam Wilson.

 

“Steve, please tell me you understand that that boy is not your Bucky anymore. Bucky, or whoever in his body right now has to leave sooner or later, you know that right?”

 

He never softens the blow either.

 

“Sam,...”

 

“What is dead should stay dead, you know that. ”

 

“No, Sam, I don't.” He chokes out the words, and hopes they don't sound like a fucking sob, because that'll be pathetic. Steve puts both elbows on his knees, bending down a little at the waist and holding the Styrofoam cup in both hands between his knees. He watches James hesitantly, cautiously petting the Retriever's head, watching the boy's eyes turn soft and his lips curve up a little more at the corner into a small sweet smile. _Oh, and how the dead is supposed to stay dead when he is looking like that._

 

“The only thing I know is my best friend was dead and now he's back, alive and breathing. Please tell me how am I supposed to know that, Sam.”

 

“Steve, the thing inside that body isn't Bucky.” Sam's voice is gently, as if it will make everything hurts less. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, cutting of the sight of his darling boy that he so loves, so adores.

 

“Please don't say that. You don't know that. He said he doesn't know who he is. It might be Bucky. I have to make sure.” He hopes Sam understands, and he knows Sam does, but he has to be the voice of reason. That's why Steve keeps him as a friend in the first place, after all. Sam puts one hand on his shoulder, clasping it gently but firm.

 

“And what if it might not? You and I both saw it that night. He had no pulse and he stopped breathing. That boy can be anyone right now. I also hope it's Bucky Barnes in there. I really do. But what if it's not, Steve. What are you gonna do?”

 

 _And what am I supposed to do?_ , he wants to ask, but keeps it at only a smile. Otherwise, he'll probably breakdown and cry, and he's tired of that already.

 

*****

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What's dead should stay dead" is from Supernatural - Dean said it in one of the early season (can't exactly remember, sorry)


	6. Chapter 6

_**"Oh christ, I just wanted you to fuck me, and then I became greedy, I wanted you to love me."** _

__Tracey Emin: Love Is What You Want_ _

 

 

 

He lies still on his – no, not his – bed, listening to the even breathing sound of the man sleeping on the coach outside. Maybe he should tell Steve to sleep here instead since he still can't figure it out when to sleep. He confuses with a lot of thing, sometimes. James – yes, that's his name now – breathes out quietly and rolls to lie on his side, watching the blue curtain sways slightly from the wind seeping through the close window.

 

The sound of a motorcycle passing by the street below distracts him from a soft footstep in the other room of the apartment. When he finally notices that the breathing sound from the other room is not even anymore, the wooden door is pushed open with a quiet creak. James stops his breathing and hold very still. It's Steve, he knows. He doesn't know why he knows, but he somehow knows how it feels to have those blue eyes looking at. It feels warm, so so warm, and he doesn't want to be anywhere else.

 

“Hey buddy,” Steve says, his voice rough and tired. And the small part of his brain whispers that it's because of him, because he is not what Steve wants, because Steve wants someone else, and he is not enough. James curls to himself a little at that thought, because it hurts, and he is so tired with pain. The blond man shuts the door and walks closer to the bed, slowly sitting on the edge.

 

“You can't sleep?” He asks, and James wants to answer that question with _I don't know how to sleep_ , but he's afraid it will upset Steve – it definitely will, he knows – and decides to roll to lie on the other side to face with the other man instead. He peers up a little, meeting with big blue eyes and a soft smile.

 

“Hi,” James doesn't understand why that is always the first word Steve says when their eyes meet, but he doesn't mind it one bit – he wants to say he likes it but he can't he can't he can't. He eventually breathes out and tucks his hands to his chest.

 

“Hi,” He says it back, just as quiet. Steve smiles a little more because of that, and it makes his heart swell. One big hand is put on his head, stroking gently at his hair. It feels nice.

 

“I dream about you tonight.” Steve's voice is so quiet, as if it's a confession, as if he's seeking for forgiveness. And James will give him all. Whatever he's looking for, he will give it all to him, because he loves Steve Rogers so so much – no, that's not right. James blinks, chasing his own confusion away and keeps his eyes at Steve's smile.

 

“I see you fall. I keep seeing you fall, Buck. Why is that?” Steve chokes out the words as if they physically hurt him. He still smiles, but his smile turns ugly and sad. James doesn't like it, but he doesn't know what to do. The voice in his head keeps whispering that it's because he's not what Steve Rogers wants, because he's someone else who might be anything but the Bucky Barnes that Steve Roger wants. James draws his legs up closer to his abdomen.

 

“What did I miss, Bucky? I know you my whole life. We spend nights and days together and I still don't understand. Is it because of me? Oh God, I'm sorry.” Steve breaks down and cries after he says the word out. He sobs and sobs and sobs, and James doesn't know what to do. He wants to say it's not his fault, but he doesn't dare to say and only lies still, waiting for the wrecking sound to stop. Cupping his hand at the back of his head, Steve bends down, touching his forehead at James' temple and let the tears drip down onto his cheek. Steve cries and cries and cries, and James still doesn't know what to do.

 

“I miss you, Bucky, so so much. I love you I love you I love you.” Steve whispers in his ears, as if it's a secret, and James drinks it in as if it's for him. (For bad days, he keeps whispering to himself. Just for when everything is hurt and he's in pain.) Warm lips continue mouthing the words in his ears, and James lets all those words sink in. His face is wet and Steve is inconsolable. 

 

James scoots a little into the middle of the bed and Steve ends up curling on the bed with an arm hold tight onto his chest. He rolls back to watch the swaying curtain, let Steve be the big spoon and lock him protectively tight to his big broad chest. It makes James feel safe, and he can't remember the last time he feels so. (He can't remember a lot of thing, actually.) Steve cries for a while but eventually stops because he's too tired and has no more tear left to shed. He breathes hard, still. They finally fall as asleep like that, with James' head off the pillow and Steve's body curl tightly behind him.

 

*****

 

James wakes up to the screeching sound coming from the next room. He blinks, soaking the warm under the heavy duvet for a few minutes more then finally sits up. The space next to him is empty and cold to the touch. It makes his inside a little queasy. (Because you are not the one he wants to wake up with, his brain whispers.) James wanders out of the bedroom, following the noise to the other room that is Steve's office. (He doesn't have a permission to come in there yet.) The door is ajar, and he peers inside through the small gap. The yellow warm light from a lamp on the desk doesn't do much in lightening the dark room, but it seems enough because there're pens and pencils scatter on the top of the desk and over a drawing paper. Steve, who is just coming out from under the desk, startles a little when he sees him standing at the door, but he smiles, nonetheless.

 

“Oh, did I wake you up? Sorry, my pen rolled behind the desk so I have to move it out a little.” He shrugs sheepishly while waving that pen in his hand. He gets back on the chair with a sigh.

 

“It's still dark. You can go to sleep a bit more, James. I have a little work to finish.”

 

“Can I, err, can I sit with you?” _I wanna be close to you_ , James doesn't add. Steve looks surprise at the request but beckons him to come in anyway. 

 

“You can sit at the...” His sentence is cut short when James walks into the room and sits down right at his feet, putting his head on the knees. He hears Steve's breath hitches, and James starts to worry. (Have to watch the way Steve breathes. His lungs don't do so good. James doesn't know why he knows that.)

 

“Is this okay? I can...”

 

“No, no, it's okay, if this is what you want then it's okay. Make sure you're comfortable down there, yeah?”

 

“Okay,” James mumbles. Steve's movement is stiff at first, like he doesn't know what to do when he has a grown man sitting at his feet and snuggling close like this. But eventually, he's relax and goes back to his work. James closes his eyes, soaking the warm radiating from the body sitting higher than him. This is good, he thinks. Being at Steve Rogers' feet and waiting for the instruction. Nothing hurts and he's warm, it's better than okay. The sound of pencil scratching on the paper makes him drowsy in a few minutes.

 

“I'm sorry about last night, James.” Steve says, voice so quiet he barely hears it.

 

“It's okay. You love him.” James says, and his heart hurts, because he wants Steve to love him too. But he doesn't say that out loud. Steve puts a hand on his head, unconsciously playing with his hair like he always does.

 

“But it's not right. I shouldn't put it out on you like that. It's not fair.”

 

“Do you wanna fuck?”

 

“What?” An alarm in Steve's voice makes he lifts his head up and turns around to look up to the man who looks down at him with a horror in his eyes. James' lips part and he watches Steve subconsciously tracks the movement with his eyes.

 

“I will be very still so you don't know I'm not him. I will make no noise at all, I promise. You can't tell the different. I'll be so good.” _Please at least love me too_ , James wants to say, but doesn't want to be greedy so he keeps it at that. (Because a greedy little slut won't get anything but punishment.)

 

“No, James, no, please don't do this.” Big callous hands cup his cheeks and lock his face in place so he can't turn away. Steve's eyes are big and full with tears. They bores down at him, accusing him for saying such hurtful thing, and James doesn't know what to do.

 

“What do you want me to do?” And his question makes Steve breaks

 

“And what am I supposed to do?! You uses the eyes of the boy I love so fucking much looking at me like that. How can I tell the different? How can I know you are not him? How can I gonna forget? I miss him so fucking much and I want him back! This is so unfair. You are so unfair.”

 

The words hurt. James never knows how a simple word can be so hurtful, and if he has a heart like everybody else, it probably breaks. He sits still, so very still and blinks. His throat hurts and it takes a moment for him to find his voice again. In the quiet barely lit room filled with Steve Rogers' hard breathing and accusing stare, James feels like he's going to cry, but he won't, he won't.

 

“Do you want me to leave? I can leave.”

The room turns dead silent after the words leave his month. Steve's lips part, and before there's any voice comes out, James' face crumbles. He doesn't want to hear the words that Steve Rogers might say. He can't. He chokes on his own breath while clinging tightly at the soft material of Steve's sweatpants. He begs and begs and begs.

 

“But, Steve, please don't tell me to leave. I don't wanna leave.”

 

*****

 

When the first light of the day paints the apartment, there's a redhead angel waiting at the door.

 

*****

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_**He looked like heaven and it hurts like hell.** _

 

 

The knock comes a little bit after 8 in the morning, after the sun finally starts painting the whole new York city in warm orange light. Steve startles at the heavy thud sound, hands instinctively reaching for a blade hiding in the heap of his drawing papers. He waits until the second knock comes to stand up and walk out of his office. The slightly opened bedroom's door makes him stop right on his track and peers inside. He meets with the sight of the tight duvet ball lying on the bed with only a little brown lock peeks out from under it. It's adorable. It's heart breaking. Steve wants to smile at the sight because it's really endearing, but he can't.

 

"James," He calls, quietly but it feels so loud in the room filled with heavy and suffocated silent for the past night. James doesn't stir, and the sight of that adorable tight ball suddenly feels cold.

 

"I'll go open the door. Please stay in here, okay?"

 

"Okay" The answer comes out like whisper but Steve hears it anyway, and it sounds cold and far away. He signs and turns to walk to the door. He signs some more and finally yanks the door open without looking at the peephole like he supposes to do, and the redhead angel standing arrogantly at his door with a long blade in her small elegant hand makes him pause.

 

"Romanov?"

 

"Who do you think you are Steve Rogers?"

 

"What?" The angel smirks, and he hates that smirk on that pretty face so much it makes his skin crawl.

 

"You think you can hide the demon in your tiny room forever? Your whole building stinks of it. Disgusting, Rogers. And it's the one I hired you to hunt to begin with." Romanov draws her words out like they are not a threat, but they are, Steve works with her long enough to know that dangerous gleam in her green eyes. She leans her hip against his door frame and crosses her arms over her chest. The tip of the blade in her hand is dangerously close to her smooth cheek. Her perfect groomed eyebrows ark up a little as if daring him to answer. Steve swallows hard, but he’s not afraid of her. He never does. He straights up, using his height to crowd over her small figure.

 

“What do you want, Romanov?” Before those pretty lipstick stained lips can move to answer, the elevator’s door at the end of the hallway slides open and Sam Wilson walks out of it with three styrofoam cups that smell like coffee and hot chocolate in the paper holder. He stops in his track when he sees who another visiter is.

 

“Sam Wilson, what a surprise.”

The smile the redhead angel gives to Sam is beautiful in the way deadly thing is beautiful, and Sam is brave enough to smile back and walks closer to the door, looking at ease.

 

“G’ morning, Angel. Sorry I didn’t buy you a coffee. Don’t know you’re in the town.” Sam says, easy and friendly in the Sam Wilson way as he hands Steve the cup holder and leans his shoulder on the other side of the door frame that isn’t occupied. He picks one of the cups that smells like coffee out of the holder then sips it a little while still watching the angel with amused eyes.

 

"You know what, I know now why you look so familiar. You're Natalia Romanova. I took my mom to watch your ballet show once. She loved it, by the way." Sam's words make the smirk on that pink lips falter a little, but her eyes still have that dangerous gleam that gives Steve's spine a tinkle.

 

"The ballerina's gone, Wilson. It's Natasha now." Her voice is crisp and unkind, like all the angels are, then she turns her attention back to him. That little smirk he's so hate is now back on her pretty lips.

 

"Now, Rogers, about our business. I thought we had a deal. You bring me the demon, I give you one wish, the usual. What..." Her sentence is cut short by the small creek sound inside his room, and all Steve can think in that moment is; fuck. He turns around and there's James at the end of the hallway, lingering hesitantly at the edge of the living room. He's in his hoodies and sweatpants, hair messy and feet bare. Steve maybe a goner for his best friend but never in his life he thinks of Bucky as adorable, but James is, even he looks tired with the bruised under his eyes. He's adorable in the childish way that Bucky never have been. He blinks his big grey eyes at him owlishly, doesn't seem to notice the two visitors at his front door then lower them to floor, moving involuntarily to the nearby wall as if trying to be small.

 

"I'm sorry. I gotta use the bathroom. I can..." He trails off as he points his finger back to the bedroom and turns to leave in a very obedient manner. It hurts to look and Steve doesn't know why.

 

"Hey,"

 

"Well, Rogers, this explain a lot why our deal won't seal yet."

Natasha's voice draws James' attention immediately as if he just sees her appear here. James frowns and his posture harden, crouching like a feral cat pointing to attack. But then it's like something clicks in James' head and he gives Steve a hurtful accused stare, and, oh, it hurts.

 

"James,"

 

"лгун" James spats the word out like it's a poison, and it burns. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Natasha moves her blade, but before he has a chance to stop her, James dashes to the glass door to the balcony, jumping off the metal rail with no hesitation, and, fuck, they are 5 stories high.

 

"James!"

At one point, Steve thinks he has a flashback of that night, of Bucky Barnes jumping off the rail of the different balcony without saying goodbye, and it's suddenly hard to breathe, because he loves that boy so much, but how can he let that happen, how can he not know. He loves that boy his whole life and he misses the most fucking important thing.

 

"Steve, Steve! You gotta breathe, man. Can you do that for me? Slow deep breathe. That's it. One more time. Good boy."

 

Steve finds himself kneeling on the floor next to the spilled coffee and hot chocolate, breathing so hard his chest hurts. Sam is next too him, speaking to him with soft soothing voice, hand clapping heavily at the back of his neck and thump gently drawing a soothing circle at his skin. Steve blinks back the tears, trying to chase those awful images away from his eyes and stands back up on his shaky legs.

 

"You okay?"

 

"Yeah, thanks Sam." Sam looks skeptical but he lets it slip. They both walk to the balcony and find Natasha already standing there, hands hold loosely on the metal rail while her petite body bends over the rail, looking at the street below.

 

"That's pretty amazing, for a ghost."

 

"What?" She glances at him from the corner of her eyes for a second, accessing him whether he's worth for the intel or not, then turns back to the street below. The air around her feels different, colder and meaner in the way that angels always are.

 

"There're stories among the demons lately, about a man who can be and do anything you desire with the right trigger words. Some said he's a sniper serving in the World War 2 and was captured by the Nazi. Other said he's a spy operating in the cold war and was captured by the Russian."

 

"Russian. He's captured by the Russian." Steve said quietly as the bottom of his stomach sinks even lower. He looks along the street below as if trying to figure which way that James goes. Natasha lifts her eyebrows a little as if to ask how he knows. He doesn't answer so she just shrugs.

 

"If you says so. The Russian did numbers to him. So much the program implanted in his head still works when he's dead. He might not be as deadly as he was when he's alive, but he's dangerous, still. You see, Rogers, that's why your boy is a threat we want to sweep out."

 

 _No, I don't see anything_ , Steve wants to say, but he only swallows back the tears and doesn't give anything back, not even a frown, to the angel that might satisfy her. Because she will wield that as a knife and hurts him with it without any mercy, like an angel she is. Natasha turns to give him a look that looks too sincere to be genuine. Steve learns not to trust the angels long time ago.

 

"The soul shatters when you commit suicide. There might still be a small part of Bucky Barnes left in that body. If I were you, I wouldn't believe a word that demon said. He's a demon, still. And you know better than anyone how cruel and heartless demons can be. They make you see what you wanna see. They will make you hear what you wanna hear. They will blind you with your own desire. That's how demons work. They deceive us that way. Don't let a small fracture of the soul that mingles with some fuck up beyond repair soul blind you, Rogers. He may feel things that don't belong to him and you'll falling for fancying him.”

 

*****

 

Steve hears before he sees the glass door to his balcony slides slowly open from the outside. He grabs a remote, muting the noise from a television and quickly stands up, greeting the man who cautiously walks inside with thin lips and ached heart.

 

"James," He calls out, voice sterns unintentionally and James flinches, keeping himself flat to the dry wall and lowering his eyes to the wooden floor.

 

"Close the door, please. It's cold."

James does as he was told without meeting his eyes. The bright fluorescence light in his living room makes his skin look so pale and Steve sees him shiver in his hoodies and sweatpants. His bare feet is red from the cold and they actually looks hurt.

 

He shouldn't, he knows, after the angel told him this morning, but fuck the angel, he doesn't care. He will get any piece of Bucky Barnes that was left even it's a tiny bit that was mingled with something else. It's the boy he loves so so much, still. Steve walks over to the boy who folds into himself even tighter when he comes close, shielding himself as much as possible.

 

"Hey," Steve cranes his neck, trying to meet those grey eyes behind the curtain of messy brown hair, but it doesn't work, so he puts a hand gently on the cold smooth cheek, thump circling on the sharp cheek bone softly in a hope that it'll warm the cold skin up a little.

 

"I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. I didn't mean to run away" James whispered. His chapped unnaturally red lips barely move and he still doesn't meet Steve eyes.

 

"I'm not mad. Are you cold? You're shaking so hard. James? Look at me please." The straight request always works with James, Steve lets that fact sinks in with a little churn in his stomach. He finally gets the first sight of those big grey eyes and it breaks his heart how they look at him in fear. Still, Steve tries to smile.

 

"Hi,"

 

"Hi," Steve will never get over the childish voice James always uses. It makes his heart warm for no particular reason and want to spoil him even more.

 

"You're freezing. Let's draw you a bath, yeah? It'll warm you up real quick."

 

"Okay."

He can't help himself giving a soft kiss on James' forehead before grabbing his wrist and leading him the bathroom.

 

"Take off your clothes, James. I'll fill the tube."

Steve hears a rustle of the clothes, but pointedly not going to turn back and look. Instead, he moves to the tube and starts filling it like he says. When the temperature is warm enough, he turns off the faucet and reaches out for James. The silent is so loud in deafening him

 

"C'mon, let's get you in." A cold hand but with familiar callouses on the fingers that grab his hand makes him finally turn to look back. He needs to eat more, that's his first thought when he sees the naked body of the boy he always dreams of, but Steve puts that thought aside and pulls James to the tube, helps him get into it with gentle hands. He hears a quiet sigh when he fully sits in the tube with both of his knees pull up, water reaching almost to his chin.

 

Steve takes in the sight. This is so not Bucky Barnes, looking vulnerable in the childish way like Bucky never has been, it warms his heart, nonetheless. He bends down, folding his sweatpants up to his knees then steps in the tube, sitting at the edge of the tube behind James, who immediately tense when he guides him to the space between his opened knees.

 

"It's okay. Lay back, James. I'm gonna wash your hair, if that's alright with you."

Steve waits until he gets a small nod from James to use his hands cupping a water from a tube and pouring it gently on James' head.

 

"You have to take good care of this body, James. It belongs to the boy I love so much." He feels rather than sees James stops breathing. James tilts his face up to catch his eyes, and the sight of his upside down face is so endearing Steve can't help smiling. He uses his finger tip to wipe the water out of the smooth cheek. James reaches one hand up, cupping at the back of his neck and bringing him down. Their lips touch, soft and innocent. Under other time and circumstance, it probably makes Steve's heart beat so fast his asthma acts up, but right now it only makes him feel like crying.

 

"I love you."

 

_Oh, it hurts._

 

"No, you don't."

 

"But you love me."

 

"No, I don't."

 

It's a lie, but it's a lie he keep telling himself, and the way James's face crumbles in the most heartbreaking way making it hurt even more.

 

*****

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm PiiNizm at tumblr :)


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